


Gallons of the Stuff

by tiani_j



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Established Relationship, Fake Blood, Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-17 15:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12368637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiani_j/pseuds/tiani_j
Summary: Matt and Vladimir turn up at Foggy’s apartment, drenched in fake blood, after Halloween-night crime fighting goes awry.





	Gallons of the Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I got it in my head that I had to write something for Halloween, and this happened.  
> Title from ‘[Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uX3Gw82f6GU)’ by My Chemical Romance. The timeline placement doesn’t really matter, but it’d be post-S1, ignoring S2 and the costume upgrade in S1E13 if I had to place it somewhere.

“Nice try!” one of the kids calls from the fire-escape landing. Another kid up there pokes her tongue out, while the rest of them cackle somewhere on the other side of the chain-link fence down in the alley.

Vladimir glares at them from where he’s fallen to the concrete, slipping over in the giant freaking mess of blood that those _animals_ just dumped on them. For some reason, it doesn’t smell like blood, but maybe that’s thanks to one too many hits to the head.

One second Matt was at the fence, ready to climb after the kids they’d caught smashing a window via overly enthusiastic egg throwing. The next, two buckets of the red stuff were being thrown from above, one for each vigilante.

“It’s- it’s fake blood, diluted with a bit of water,” Matt says, a hand pressed to his side where the heavy bucket hit him as he tried to dodge it.

Vladimir has half a mind to climb up the fire escape ladder and wring the kids’ necks – or else drag them to the nearest police station – but considering how much the stupid blood is blurring his vision, he’d do better to scram. 

“Let’s go,” Matt says, taking careful steps to make it through the veritable pool of blood in the alley.

“Go where? Can you make it home?” Vladimir says as he uses a trashcan for leverage to stand. Both were tired before they left for patrol, but the lawyer insisted they go. Which Vladimir is never going to let him forget, because some kids just set a trap so they could dump _blood_ on them, what the-

“Foggy lives nearby,” Matt says as he picks up speed, darting to the mouth of the alley. “We can crash there for a few hours.”

“You sure?” Vladimir manages to keep up with the jogging pace Matt sets, trying to ignore the squelch of his socks and the slow rivulets running down his spine.

“’Course.” Matt rounds another corner into a smaller alley and leaps onto a closed dumpster without preamble. With unearthly grace, he continues his fatigued parkour towards the mess of fire escapes amidst makeshift clotheslines.

Vladimir follows at a slower pace, fighting just to keep his balance with his bloody clothes. 

-

The window doesn’t budge when Vladimir first tries it. His blood-slick gloves slip right off the timber, trailing red up over the white paint and glass. Hopefully it looks like a painted decoration, to match the Jack o’ Lantern decal on the other side of the glass. He glances at his companion, and winces.

Matt continues to breathe heavily beside him, leant against the fire escape rail. Blood paints his face and continues to ooze from where it’s soaked into the mask, glistening in the street light. His lips are in a firm line, not letting any more of the red stuff in than he already has by accident. For however cool the half-face mask looks, it definitely has drawbacks.

Vladimir tries again with the window, taking another second to be patient so he doesn’t lose his grip. It moves, shuddering in its frame as it’s slammed skywards. He throws a leg throw the open window, braces against the sill, and ducks to climb in. His bloody boots slip on the linoleum, and he hits the floor with a solid _thud_. Well, at least there’s no side-table to crash into.

“You okay?” Matt asks at the window, hands on the ledge.

“Of course,” Vladimir wheezes – the wind’s been knocked out of his chest but he’s fine, it’s okay. He clambers to stand, and stays on his feet despite sliding in the blood that’s seeped from his clothes. “Come on.” He holds a hand out.

Matt latches on with a nigh-painful grip as he clambers through the window, ducking his head at the last second so it doesn’t hit the pane. Being more nimble in general – or thanks to his boyfriend’s hand that’s currently losing circulation – Matt doesn’t fall. 

Blood returns to Vladimir’s hand when Matt relinquishes his death-grip to turn and close the window.

Footsteps echo elsewhere in the apartment, past the lounge-room. Logically, Vladimir knows it must be from the bedroom, but he wouldn’t put it past Foggy to eat midnight-bagels or something.

“Whoever just broke in,” Foggy calls from the hallway, voice almost shaking, “you have two seconds to leave before I seriously mess you up.”

Vladimir chuckles, and elbows the other vigilante. “Are you scared?”

“Petrified,” Matt says with a sigh from where he’s leant against the wall. He clears his throat. “Foggy, it’s just us.”

The footsteps go from creeping to stomping. “Why are you two here?” Foggy asks from around the corner of the hallway. “You know this is my apartment and not yours, right? If there is _any_ funny business on my couch I’m going to set it on fire with you still on it.”

Matt laughs, breathless, and steps away from the wall. He winces and crumples the left side of his chest; hand over where the bucket caught him in the ribs. It must’ve hit harder than it seemed. 

“No, stay there,” Vladimir mutters, a hand nudging his boyfriend to stay by the wall.

“Me?” Foggy demands.

With a roll of his eyes, Vladimir pulls off his balaclava to drop it to the linoleum, and looks over his shoulder.

The apartment’s owner creeps into the living room, baseball raised behind his head, and pyjama-shirt on backwards. He swings the bat with a loose hand so it’s held by his side. “Shit. What’s that all that red stuff that you’re getting on my floor? Will it come out?” He stays by the couch that faces the plasma TV, keeping his distance.

Vladimir turns to face him, about to tell him that no, he needn’t worry about fake blood staining the linoleum that looks fresh from the 1950s. Matt beats him to it.

“It’s red syrup, for Halloween,” he says, tone dripping with sarcasm as he hauls off his bandana-like mask. He drops it to the floor, where it hits with a wet smack.

“Is that really red syrup? Please tell me it’s syrup. I can’t stand blood,” Foggy frowns, and leaves the bat on the couch to creep closer. 

“Good thing it’s everywhere,” Vladimir sneers. 

“I hate you,” Foggy says.

“At least my shirt is on right.” To be fair, it’s soaked in red goo, but that’s neither here nor there.

Foggy checks his shirt and mutters a curse when he realises it is indeed on wrong. “It’s not my fault I sleep without one.”

Vladimir sighs. “It really is,” he says, with faux sympathy.

“Piss off. I thought I was going to have a quiet Halloween. No trick-or-treaters, no ragers, just discounted candy and cheesy horror movies. Could you two do any of that? No. You had to go and get yourselves Carrie’d.”

“A lot of crime happens on Halloween night, Foggy,” Matt says from the wall. 

Vladimir watches the brunet’s chest rise and fall, his own breaths growing more even as the adrenaline and panic ebb. Matt seems to be doing marginally better than before, but still favours his injured side.

“Including the prank you fell victim to,” Foggy shakes his head and turns on his heel, wandering to the opposite wall. “What is that, pig’s blood? And why’d you come here, anyway?”

“It’s fake,” Matt says. “Tastes like mint.”

“Oh, gross,” Foggy says as he flicks on a light.

Vladimir doesn’t know if it actually tastes like mint, and isn’t inclined to find out. “Home is too far, and a bucket from the blood hit Matt.”

“We just need to shower and get some of the blood off, and then wait here for a little bit until I’m not about to keel over, okay?” Matt gestures with his free hand to the hallway.

“Fine, okay, whatever. Second door to the right,” Foggy says as he rounds the diving wall to the kitchen. “One at a time.”

Vladimir ignores the last part, and grabs his boyfriend’s arm to set it across his shoulders. 

Matt laughs as he takes a shaky step forward, leaning heavily on Vladimir. “Foggy, c’mon, we’ll just be rinsing our clothes off-”

Foggy returns from the kitchen, shirt on the right way, and arms crossed. “Nuh-uh, I’ve made that mistake before when you losers were getting your apartment painted-” 

Vladimir chuckles at the memory of Foggy’s overreaction. That was a few months ago, when Vladimir had drawn the line with the ugly, peeling paint in the apartment. They had the money to repaint thanks to an influx of clients at the law firm, but not quite enough cash to rent a hotel room for a few days. 

So, with Karen’s apartment being a shoebox – and Foggy being much more tolerable of Vladimir – the pair stayed with him. Matt had ruled the ensuing debacle Foggy’s fault for returning home an hour early from grocery shopping, and not knocking before opening the bathroom door. After suffering through several hours of Matt's puppy-dog eyes and insistence, Vladimir baked apology muffins, and the issue was forgotten. Mostly.

“That was an accident, and it was one time-” Matt protests, dragging his feet.

Foggy holds up a finger to shush his best friend from afar. “One time too many,” he says with a glare, then gives an exaggerated shudder. “Seriously, you have three minutes, and then I’m shutting the hot water off.”

The vigilantes make it to the bathroom with a trail of fake blood on the floor behind them, while the electric kettle hums away in the kitchen. Vladimir twists the door handle and kicks at the timber. He fumbles for the light switch, then shoves Matt towards the shower-tub. 

The brunet almost falls into the shower curtain, but recovers with a bloody hand to the wall. He swipes the curtain out of the way, and clambers to stand in the shower. He runs a gloved hand through his blood-soaked hair that looks crimson under the harsh fluorescent light.

Vladimir huffs a sigh of relief and kicks the door shut behind them. He peels his gloves off and lobs them into the sink. It was on the agenda to thwart some B&Es and scare off kids toting eggs and toilet paper rolls, not, as Foggy so eloquently put it, to “get Carrie’d”.

But they’re all right now, safe in an apartment that should really have locks on its windows. The blood has either been soaked up by their black clothing or dripped off, and isn’t quite as tacky as the real stuff against his skin. 

He steps into the shower and reaches for the hot-cold faucet, ready to ignore Foggy’s previous request because, well. They’re both drenched in fake blood. Nothing is gonna happen.

“Wait, I just-” Matt grabs Vladimir’s hand before the tap can be turned, then lets go. He wets his lips and leaves them slightly parted, red glistening over pink. He stands less than a foot away from his boyfriend, leaning against the eggshell-colour tiled wall.

“What?” Vladimir pulls the plastic curtain shut, so the showerhead won’t get water all over the bathroom floor. He’s fallen over enough times tonight, thank you very much. 

“C’mere,” Matt smiles, one hand still on his side, the other beckoning.

They can’t get much closer; they’re both in the same ‘here’. Vladimir scowls, and shuffles towards the wall. 

Matt gives a tiny smile and reaches up to loop his arms behind Vladimir’s neck, arms over his shoulders, pulling him even nearer.

The blood – fake as it may be – is pretty high on Vladimir's least-appealing-things list. Right next to old seafood from when he fell into a dumpster trying to make the same jump Matt did a few weeks ago. And real blood, like when Matt got his nose broken while trying to break up a bar fight last summer.

But Vladimir is cold from the damp water-blood monstrosity, and Matt’s chest is warm against his own. And who knows? Maybe the chemical concoction does taste like mint. Vladimir sets his hands on Matt’s hips and leans in eyes-closed, fake blood be damned. 

Matt kisses back with an impatient hum, and it’s- it’s not great. There’s still that rush of contentment and a little giddiness that Vladimir gets whenever they share a proper kiss, but. The fake blood is sticky between their lips - smudging around their mouths thanks to Matt being a little over-eager - and they're still drenched in it. It's not an ideal scenario, to say the least. 

Vladimir squeezes Matt’s hips through the sodden trousers, thumbs pressing against the bones there. After a moment, he pulls away from the kiss with a harsh inhale. “Uh, no. No, no. Wash it off,” he says with a shake of his head. Matt is right about the minty taste to the fake blood, but it’s still gross. 

Before Matt can do anything other than pout, Foggy hits the bathroom door. The aggressive knocks shake the door on its hinges, as if hit with a fist. 

Matt drops his arms from the Russian's shoulders, one hand probing at the bruise that’s surely formed over a section of his ribs, and winces a little. 

“I can’t hear water running!” Foggy calls. “If you don’t hurry it up, I’ll get locks on my windows so you two can never visit again-”

“Your neighbourhood has hooligans with gallons of fake blood, you should get locks anyway,” Vladimir shouts and steps back, closer to the faucet. He turns the tap on high pressure and sticks his head under the cold water, hands scrubbing to rid his hair of half-congealed fake blood. 

“You really should,” Matt adds with a chuckle as he toes off his shoes, a hand against the wall for balance. 

Red paints the off-white tub as the fake blood washes out from their clothes, rinsing away while the water finally turns warm. 

Matt flashes a conspiratorial smile and, although Vladimir knows it’s pointless, he smiles back. Yeah, the blood is gross, but it could be worse. The kids could’ve thrown pumpkin guts, or rotten eggs. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Apologies for any mistakes; it’s largely unedited but hey, it’s Halloween night where I live so I’m running out of time haha. I haven’t written/finished a one-shot before, and only write short stories under duress, so. I hope it turned out okay.


End file.
